“Not in the capacity of host,” she added, further color washing over her cheeks.
He swept the curl from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Lovers, you mean. You want to know if any of the ladies in attendance are my lovers.”
“It’s none of my concern, of course. Forgive me, I shouldn’t have?—”
“No,” he interrupted swiftly, holding her gaze. “I haven’t any lovers here. It isn’t the ladies presently playing naughty charades in the drawing room who interest me.”
There was only one woman at Wingfield Hall he wanted. And she was watching him warily, hands still on his shoulders. At least she hadn’t flitted away just yet. He liked simply touching her, the potent aphrodisiac of her proximity.
Her next question took him by surprise.
“What is naughty charades?”
A small laugh gusted from him. “It is what you might imagine it to be. Charades, only with a prerequisite that all words being acted out must be sinful in nature. Garments are optional.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Would you care to play?” He couldn’t resist teasing. “Everyone is masked this evening. No one will know your name.”
“Charades in the nude? I daresay not.”
“Or we could play here together,” he suggested devilishly. “Just the two of us. I have it on good authority that I’m quite adept at charades. And other sport as well.”
Her lips compressed in her best imitation of a scandalized governess. “We will be doing nothing of the sort.”
Rhys didn’t bother to point out that she was presently in his arms, clad in nothing more than a dressing gown, in her bedroom. Doing so would only send her from him, and he wanted her close. As close as possible. And preferably without the impediment of her dressing gown and his bloody evening suit in the way.
“Perhaps we might do this instead, then,” he suggested, sliding his hand around to cup her nape beneath the heavy curtain of her hair.
Lowering his head, he placed a delicate kiss on her cheekbone.
Her skin was as smooth and warm as he had recalled from that morning. He wanted to kiss every sweet inch of her. To throw her over his shoulder and carry her to the bed and make love to her all night long.
He heard her inhale sharply, felt her fingertips tightening on his coat.
“Or this.” He kissed her ear, then the hollow behind her earlobe, unable to keep from flicking his tongue over her.
A low sound emerged from her, but she made no effort to move.
He took that as a sign to continue, dropping his mouth to her throat, absorbing the hasty beat of her pulse. She tipped her head back, giving him better access to the velvet-soft column. It required all the restraint he possessed to keep from devouring her as he longed to do.
But he was determined to make her admit that she wanted him.
That she wanted his lips on hers.
He found the hollow of her throat next as she shivered and stepped into him, her full, round breasts crushing against his chest. And fuck, her nipples were hard little points he could feel through all the layers separating them.
“Whitby,” she murmured, a plea in her voice he would be happy to answer.
He needed more from her first, however.
“Rhys, darling.” He rasped his teeth along her throat. “Say my name, and I’ll give you anything you want. Anything you need.”
Still, she was stubborn. The silence was interrupted only by her ragged breaths and dainty inhalations as he flicked his tongue over her pulse. Undaunted, he moved back up her throat to her jaw, stringing hot kisses over the delicate angle. Her hands shifted, fingers sifting through the ends of his hair as she sighed.
He kissed the corners of her mouth, first one and then the other, avoiding settling his lips over hers and giving her the all-consuming kiss he so desperately wanted to give her. She was tenacious, but so was he. And he would have her surrender before he was done.
Rhys kissed the space below her plump lower lip, then kissed her philtrum above it before withdrawing and staring down into her lovely, flushed face.
